It is the same house, the same backyard,
shrunken in the eyes of just now
The leaking roof of the sky discolors
the illusions I hung above its attic of clouds
over a neighborhood leaning to one side
What happened here has been recorded
in memory cells, on scratch pads, but is
a work of fiction written outside time
The solid numbers once nailed vertically
on the banister have grown italic
The skin of the shadow opening the front door
feels of mold and fear, its breath harsh
Some of the people who sat on the sofas,
slept in the beds, ate at the table, are dead,
their words and syntax muted in banter
that rattles the china in the hallway curio
I hovered but never lived inside
this foreign country where I woke
in mornings shaken by psychotic bees
I am not of this place; the trees
do not remind me of shade or breezes
where kisses are exclamation points
I must be a case of delivery to
an existence intended elsewhere
On another block must hang a leaf
with my name scribbled on it
in streaks of rain
The street sign I fly past has gone blank
and knowing I am misplaced
I turn mystic and set a course
far distant